first share
Growing Fennelmy Ophelia grew her own fennel
and left me, alone and ruined.
still I am betrayed by the Truth.
the Truth marks monstrous memories,
while disguising unwelcome realities.
my Ophelia, like she could be
any single person's anything, except -
for her father, who held the purse strings.
like a garrote, to control, and maneuver.
she is nothing; a waif's mother.
i need not pity myself, nor her,
for fate decided long ago,
in that first hour; in that first encounter.
i stopped my reading for her that day.
for they were only words, dusty words, waiting words.
i pity the waif, who knows everything and nothing.
a child taken from a world of inheritance,
by a simple encounter of chance, of Fate.
where is the child, born too soon,
and into a sorrow too late to remove.
4
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